faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ Endlessly Far Beneath My Feet

MOD PLOT ↠ Endlessly Far Beneath My Feet

WHO: Open
WHAT: A visit to Orzammar
WHEN: For about 10 days in early Bloomingtide
WHERE: Orzammar
NOTES: OOC post. Please use content warnings in your comment subject lines as required.

Orzammar is not all that far from Kirkwall: a short trip across the Waking Sea to Jader, then an even shorter (though much more exhausting than it seemed in dreams) hike up into the Frostback mountains brings them to the great stone doors that stand between Orzammar and the surface. Once those doors creak and groan shut in their wake—and the next set of doors, too, designed like a waterlock to keep the sky from reaching the city—it is no easy thing to open them again. No one's going to see the sun until they leave.

The great thaig within the mountains is much warmer than the chilly pass through them, thanks to the molten lake beneath it, which also keeps many of the open streets at least dimly lit 24 hours per day, until they wander off further than the glow can reach. The thaig is magnificent, brimming with distinctive angular architecture and statues honoring dwarven Paragons and ancestors. It's also sprawling. Despite giving the deceptive impression at the entrance of a hollow dome that can be taken in with a single look around, the thaig is home to one hundred thousand dwarves, give or take a few thousand. And that's with a dwindling population. It was built for even more. Buildings with narrow facades burrow and wind deep into the stone behind them. So do side streets that branch away from the Commons at every level. Most of them are lyrium-lit and safe to travel. But given the absence of any sun or moon, the way they ascend and descend and loop through the rock, they can be very disorienting to navigate without stone sense.

Among the locals on the street there's a lingering, palpable sense of relief that the worst seems to have passed, so far as the darkspawn at Orzammar's doors is concerned. It's put most people in a particularly good mood, and made them a bit more disposed than usual to treat the influx of visitors from above as an entertaining novelty. That won't stop the occasional dwarf from being suspicious of outsiders here to interfere with the Assembly or bitter that they want something when Orzammar never asked them for help, but friendly interest will be more common by far.

ACCOMMODATIONS

Riftwatch's Division Heads and Project Leaders will be the personal guests of House Bemot and put up in the house's sprawling, mazelike estate in the Diamond Quarter. The residence is brimming with artwork: statues of the house's prominent ancestors, dazzling stonework on columns and doorways, mosaics on the floors, and art both dwarven and imported lining the walls. They're given private rooms—many far from each other, down different turning corridors carved back into the stone—with large beds and hot water piped up from nearer to Orzammar's molten depths. The rooms are nice but don't mistake this for only an unfair perk; there are servants listening and marking their comings and goings at all times.

Since visitors from the surface are much rarer and their stays usually as short as possible, Orzammar is minimally equipped for large swells of visitors, so the rest of Riftwatch's personnel will be packed into one of two inns located in the tier of the Commons where merchants and other surface-dwellers typically reside when they're permitted access to the thaig.

The Paragon's Rest is the nicer of the two. Two ages ago it was the grand home of a prominent merchant house that has since died out; its name comes from the fact that two (two!) paragons have stayed there since the time it was converted into an inn. It boasts a modest number of small, private rooms and shared rooms with artful dividers, all with stone walls that have been carved with intricate geometric patterns. Meals and drinks are available in an expansive hall where local well-to-do merchants frequently play Diamondback and make expensive deals. The inn's position near the gates and something about the design and directions of the corridors minimizes the heat from Orzammar's molten center and even allows for a breeze to reach the common areas now and then.

Unfortunately, the Paragon's Rest doesn't have room for everyone, and the Buttered Nug is less pleasant. The inn was more recently a shop with expansive back storage for its inventory. The shop is now a cramped, sweaty tavern room, where no matter the hour a nug is always roasting—and constantly being basted with butter—over the fire, while more nugs snuffle in a holding pen in a corner, awaiting their doom. The proprietor tries to encourage everyone who passes through to have a plate. It's his grandmother's recipe. You're going to love it. The diners and residents are mostly merchants of the struggling and/or shady variety. The former storage rooms are unadorned, nearly more cavern than room, and large enough to be shared by large numbers of people, with stone lattice-work dividers between beds that provide very little actual privacy. Choosing the room deeper into the stone will make the temperature less sweltering but significantly increase the number of spiders in your bed.

Fortunately, no one has to do more than sleep there if they don't want to. And maybe try just one plate of grandma's buttered nug?

WORK

Riftwatch's primary objectives in Orzammar are sharing information about the war and making a good impression. While speaking to the Assembly might be the centerpiece of those efforts, it's not the extent of them. The noble caste may sit at the top of the dwarven hierarchy, but they're not the only ones with sway or useful resources and nudging public opinion more generally could have its benefits.

There are some specific ways Riftwatch can make itself visibly useful to Orzammar, to help counter the argument that the surface is asking for help without being willing to provide any in return. Assisting with red lyrium removal, installing cleansing runes, and teaching members of the mining caste how to do both for themselves will be priorities. And while the enemy's retreat to the north has lessened the pressure on the thaig, Orzammar lives in constant fear of darkspawn all the same. Riftwatch members suited for combat will be assigned shifts with the dwarven troops on patrol in the near sectors of the Deep Roads or standing watch at the great doors that block off the ancient tunnels.

Meetings with various members of the middle-rank castes (warrior, smith, artisan, mining, merchant) have been arranged and assigned, some with an explicit focus on discussing the war effort and providing information about what Riftwatch has learned and experienced, while others are focused on building trade connections or exploring potential opportunities to collaborate on research—and if opportunities to tell them more about the war effort in the process just happen to arise, all the better. These castes span a wide swathe of dwarven society between nobles and servants, and the meetings will reflect that, ranging from elaborate dinner parties with merchants as wealthy as any lord to casual chats over a pint with a busy blacksmith in a lower-tier tavern. Reactions will also vary, but most are interested in hearing what Riftwatch has to say, even if they're not necessarily disposed to agree. Nearly all visitors to Orzammar are merchants, and having access to this many surfacers and non-dwarves is a novelty.

Members of the Shaperate will take a more pointed and professional interest in their work. Shapers may set up appointments to talk to anyone who's able to speak about their experiences in the war so far, taking copious notes. (On paper. You're not special enough to go straight into the Memories.)

For everyone Riftwatch set a meeting with there are ten more they didn't, so a major part of the company's work in the city will be cultivating more casual interactions and both gathering and dispensing information that way. Someone might be assigned to frequent a particular tavern popular with Warriors and make connections there and find opportunities to discuss what's going on above. Someone else might be asked to drop in on a series of armorers and try to get a sense of current prices, how busy they are, and where most of their stock is being sold. Other assignments might be even more general--spend time in this cafe, or at the nug races, or chatting up merchants in this sector of the market, and see what conversations you can strike up or overhear. Talking folks into support for the war effort is great, but any generally positive interaction counts at this point, so Riftwatch members will be encouraged to pitch in wherever they see help needed, but also to be careful not to get entangled in controversy.

To coordinate all of this work, Riftwatch will have command of a private dining room in the Paragon's Rest to use as a meeting room, where everyone can come back to report, regroup, and strategize after a meeting or outing.

LEISURE

Anyone who finds themselves with downtime will also not have trouble finding things to fill it with. The Commons is lined with merchant stalls selling street food and a wide variety of fine dwarven crafts: metal goods ranging from knives to toys, clothing and bags covered in carefully placed little beads, intricate jewelry, and mechanical and enchanted inventions rarely seen on the surface. There's also an artisan who will hammer your likeness into a sheet of metal while you wait. It's all cheaper than it would be in an above-ground marketplace, as long as you're willing to haggle. Shops and smithies built into the stone sell weapons and armor—or do custom work, though getting anything completed before Riftwatch leaves Orzammar will require paying a premium.

The centerpiece of the Orzammar Commons in the Proving Arena. Currently there are no ongoing provings, but there are warriors and aspirants hanging around the surrounding areas to practice and posture. They might invite a competent-looking newcomer to spar.

An alternative to violence is nug racing, where hungry, specially-bred nugs are painted with house symbols and raced through open-topped tunnels, dug into the ground to allow spectating from above. With little happening in the Proving arena at the moment, this is the more popular spectator event in Orzammar, drawing observers from every caste to cheer and gamble on the outcomes of a series of bracketed races. House Etoras' Deep Fried (called Fred) is favored to win, but House Aratack's Hops & Grain (Hoppy) isn't a bad bet, and Keltar's Perfect Baby (Baby) might pull off an upset.

And there is also, of course, an enormous pit of lava below the Commons. (This is not deadly somehow. We don't know.) A favorite game of some of the local children is collecting trash and inviting newcomers to guess or wager on which items will burst into flames before they hit the lava and which will not. These demonstrations usually end by either a fake attempt to toss a friend over the edge as the final object, or a gleeful (and disprovable) explanation that this is why no one in Orzammar is ever found murdered. They only vanish. Fun!

If they'd like to explore beyond the Commons and the Diamond Quarter, no one will actively prevent Riftwatch members from venturing into Dust Town, the dilapidated sector of the city where the casteless live and the Carta rules. Outsiders might even be able to stumble into the area without realizing it, if they get turned around in some of the narrower back streets carved through the rock. But however they arrive, visitors to Dust Town are unlikely to make it very far without running into trouble.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Next to a fruit bowl!

[ By nods firmly. ]

The fruit bowl containing the grapes that I might slip into a lover's mouth.

[ Which is an awkward thing to say in Ginger Goatee's presence, which is clear enough from the man's uncomfortable smile. ]

[ A year ago, keeping a straight and respectable face in front of a stranger wouldn't have taken any thought, never mind any effort, whether Byerly was being funny or not. But lately Bastien's grip on himself is a little looser, and looser still when By's in the picture. Now he has to rub his whole hand over his mouth to massage the sudden tension out of the corners and hide how close a grin comes to escaping. Monumental advances in unregulated ex-bard facial expressions happening over here. ]

Have you ever met a diplomat from the surface, Monsieur Ferlro? [ Ferlro is Ginger Goatee. His uncomfortable smile is joined by an uncertain head shake, and Bastien says, ] Well. Now you have.

I will take the pitcher for twenty-five if you will sell me four of the cups for twenty. [ And to Byerly: ] Or do you want to pay a hundred silvers for each of those as well?

Edited 2021-05-17 02:55 (UTC)

[ And Byerly knows how rare it is for Bastien to have to hide a smile. Or, well - there's the other possibility, as well, that Bastien simply is imitating the act of having to hide a smile; he may simply be performing amusement for Byerly's sake. But the two of them together are such that By knows that even if it is a deliberate performance, it's one that's well-intentioned. Bastien isn't feigning the smile to get something out of By. He's doing it to give something to him instead. And that's almost as nice as if it were the real thing. ]

Tempting, tempting. [ But then he picks up a cup and squints at it. ] But no; these cups are garbage. Definitely not. Twenty's far too much.

[ Which doesn't make Ferlro lower his price, but it can't hurt the campaign for twenty. ]

[ Bastien scratches the shoulder nearest Byerly with a crooked finger that means (under the circumstances) thank you. Which almost seems premature, because Ferlro says, ]

My cousin made those cups. [ But before either human has to respond to that, he relents and adds, ] My cousin is an idiot. [ He sighs. ] All five pieces for fifty. If you ask me to go lower, you're taking food directly out of my daughter's mouth.

[ Bastien taps a fingernail against the cup Byerly is holding, as if he can tell quality by sound—and maybe he can!—before he nods. ]

For a hungry daughter, that is fair.

[ And while the semi-triumphant Ferlro begins stuffing the good and some hay into a box for travel, he leans sideways toward Byerly to murmur in Orlesian, ]

How dare you make me want grapes in Bloomingtide. When we are trapped in a cave!

[ And Byerly returns, likewise in Orlesian, but with a tone of great injury: ]

Bastien, you can't ask me that. It's far, far too easy to make a dirty joke in response, and you know I'm a weak man.

[ Is anyone looking? No, By is quite certain no one is looking. And so he feels fully empowered to pinch Bastien's very pleasing rear end. ]

[ Bastien doesn't jump; it'd be fake, if he did. But he does slowly raise his eyebrows, and by the time they've reached their apex his traitorous, training-resistant cheeks have turned faintly pink. Ears, too.

When he looks sideways and up at Byerly's face, though, he's smiling. The pleased variety of embarrassed flush, this. Not the chiding variety. ]

You're not weak. You're incorrigible. And you are—

[ Ferlro turns back with the goods, and Bastien cuts off as easily as if it were the end of his sentence and switches back to Trade to trade his coins for the box and take leave for the both of them.

For a moment, stepping away from the stall, he catches Byerly's hand. Anyone paying close enough attention to notice would have already noticed, he reasons—but it's only a moment, a squeeze, and he lets go. ]

You are going to help me find some fruit. Real fruit. It is the only way I will ever forgive you for the five silvers I could have saved on that pitcher just now.

[ By snickers, making a grand show of louche, feckless amusement. Made slightly less disreputable-seeming by the way he curls his hand in, as if capturing the memory of that quick intimate squeeze - but one would have to be observing very closely to notice that. ]

Do you think they have any fruit down here?

[ Bastien shoots a sly little look sideways—an unspoken joke about there certainly being some fruits in Orzammar now—but By’s right. They probably don’t. So: ]

I will accept jam.

[ Surely they have imported jam. Maybe? He returns to Orlesian and leans over and up on his toes toward Byerly’s ear, lowering to a quiet mumble to keep from causing a diplomatic incident. ]

What a terrible place to live.

[ No fruit. No sunlight. Constant heat from the city’s molten lake; Bastien’s been sporting a light film of sweat since they first walked through the doors. And worst of all— ]

Which caste do you think has the most fun?

What a question.

[ He puffs out a breath. ]

Before coming here, I'd have said, the Noble caste, obviously, but they're even more miserable in their infighting than the Orlesians are. Honestly, I really think it has to be the Merchants, don't you?

No back-breaking labor, interesting conversations, a little bit of travel if they are lucky... You are probably right.

[ He turns his head from stall to stall as they pass, checking for jars of anything that could plausibly be jam. ]

If we are ever transformed into dwarves by a vengeful witch, we will ask to be merchants. We can sell wine and jam. And I can paint my ceiling blue with some fluffy clouds, and you can paint yours black with stars, and everything will be fine. Contingency: planned for.

[ He swerves to the side, pulling Byerly by the elbow. There is no jam, but there is a stall of toys, including an intricately designed metal dragon with moving joints and a swiveling neck and tail, and he desperately needs to poke and prod it. ]

Ooh.

[ Byerly may be Cool, and he may be in his mid-thirties, but he is also not immune to the charms of a dragon action figure. He's fairly transfixed as he helps Bastien scientifically investigate (read: play with) it. ]

Maybe I take it back. Maybe Smith Caste.

[ Still clutching his box of cups and pitcher with one arm, Bastien crouches down to spend a few seconds trying to peek through a little crack in the dragon’s metal body to see what’s inside. ]

You be the smith. I will sell what you make.

[ It’s too dark to see how it works. He takes up the more important task of turning its head far enough for it to bite Byerly’s finger. Its little jaw moves and everything. ]

A tall, skinny dwarf with enormous arms from the forge… You will look like a lobster.

[ Leering, forming his free, un-be-dragoned hand into a lobster claw: ]

Pinch your arse so hard.

[ Then his face falls as he realizes: ]

They probably don't have lobster down here. Or eel.

[ Bastien grins wide at the claw and threat. Then he wrinkles his nose just a little in disdain. However many miles apart, they grew up beside the same sea. ]

Pickled, maybe.

Edited 2021-06-15 03:42 (UTC)

Ugh!

[ By literally staggers in agony, clutching his hands to his chest. Then, in a half-decent Dwarven accent: ]

Why would you be eating that sea monster anyway, when there's perfectly good nug right in front of you?

[ Bastien laughs. There’s a little despair in the laugh—in addition to the darkness and heat and castes and lack of jam, there has been so much nug. ]

What is an eel— [ His attempt at copying Byerly’s dwarven accent is garbled enough that he gives up and starts over in his own. ] What is an eel, really, if not a limbless water nug?

[ The toy merchant takes notice of them, and Bastien plasters over any offense the mimicry might have caused by handing him coins. Not for the big ornate dragon—too expensive—but for a smaller, simpler version, which he places precariously on Byerly’s narrow shoulder. ]

And fish are nugs with fins. Druffalo are nugs with fur.

We should find a cafe and eat the strangest thing they have.

[ Aw. By grins, and lifts his hand to steady the dragon on his shoulder. A little passenger. ]

You're a brave man. I'll watch you eat the strangest thing they have.

[ Then: ]

Why fluffy clouds for you and stars for me?

Because you have your dark moods, but you are full of light when anyone looks properly. [ He says it matter-of-factly, like it’s just as practical as his second reason. ] And because you are nocturnal. You need to feel at home. But actually I suppose that means you might fall asleep easier if your ceiling looks like daylight…

[ He considers that. He’s still considering it while he adds, ]

I have been meaning to give you a key to my room, by the way. I will. Not to be romantic.

[ Yes it is; he’s private, he’s protective of the places he can let his defenses down, and he’s never willingly given anyone unfettered access to them before in his life. ]

I just don’t want to have to get up to let you inside in the middle of the night.

[ That's -

Well.

By can't really kiss Bastien. Not here, not out in the open, not in a hostile city. But he wants to. For that full of light, for that feel at home, for that key to his room. He wants to push him down to the dirty, mushroomy ground and lay atop him like a mabari.

Instead, he just trots the little dragon up Bastien's shoulder and onto his head and pretends like it's giving a little croaky roar. ]

I'm going to sneak fruit into your room.

[ Bastien watches the dragon’s travels as far as he can, then smiles at Byerly. For a moment the smile is the sort of besotted that gets a man teased without mercy, if his friends are good for anything. In the next it’s—still besotted, really, but there’s a more respectable layer of mischief on top. ]

If I catch you in the act, I’m taking you prisoner.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

MOD PLOT ↠ Endlessly Far Beneath My Feet

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